Trips To The Farne Islands, 1960-1966

Shambolic at the pier, where lobster pots,thick ropes, and metal snags, and stink of fishfill every space, we see the distant blotswhere we are being herded. I just wishthe rungs were not so greasy, that the boatwould stop its bobbing. Queasy, we're afloat.

An annual family treat. The outboard's phlegmdistracts me briefly from the heave and swellon which we're riding. (Someone: "Look at them,the islands, it's the Farne Isles!") Bloody hell,this breeze is brisk. I wonder when this farce'llfinish. Slosh. I'm thinking Kirrin Castle

was not like this is. Where is Smuggler's Cove?We land. The lighthouse, whitewashed, shuts its eye.The picnic's laid. We wander round; we rovevaguely around the rocks, until the skyturns pale. The sun's a distant, umber ember.We won't be back again till next September.